


He Only Smokes When He Drinks

by WaywardAF67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Bar Owner Dean Winchester, Bartender Dean Winchester, Based on a song, Country Music, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pining Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 01:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17457986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67
Summary: Dean, the owner of the only bar in three counties, has been pining after Cas for years. When Cas walks in and demands a double shot and a book of matches, Dean knows it's best to leave Cas alone. He can't say the same for the tall idiot vying for Cas' attention.Based on the song: She Only Smokes When She Drinks





	He Only Smokes When He Drinks

**Author's Note:**

> She Only Smokes When She Drinks By Joe Nichols
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So I have loved this song since the first time I heard it and always thought that the dumb bartender just needed to ask the girl in the song out. So naturally, when it popped up in my music the other day, I had to make it Destiel. 
> 
> My wonderful Betas were busy and while they read and supported me through this fic they didn't have a chance to edit my mistakes. So please be kind, if you notice typos please feel free to point them out. And for the love of all that is holy, forgive any tense inconsistencies. I almost write exclusively in past tense, so present was a little tough. I think I caught everything, but I'm sure one or two slipped in. 
> 
> Also, I don't know which is more unbelievable, still being able to smoke in a bar, or a bar in rural Kansas being 100% open-minded about same-sex couples. But it's fiction, we get to wash away the bad shit and replace it with what we want to be true.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

“Can I get a double Patrón on the rocks and a book of matches?”

“It’s been that kind of day, huh?” Dean asks his customer, even though he knows if the blue-eyed Adonis is asking for matches, it can’t be good.

“That kind of week,” he says.

His name is Castiel, and he’s been coming to The Winchester for years. Sometimes with a group of friends, and usually as the designated driver. Other times he’s accompanying his twin brother Jimmy, who usually falls hard and fast for the first woman that drags him home. According to Cas, Jimmy isn’t taking his divorce well—hasn’t been for the past three years. But when Cas comes into Dean’s little dive bar alone, requesting straight tequila and a light for his smokes, it only means one thing.

He’s tired of being let down by men.

Cas always sits in the back corner booth, out of the way from the bar, but still in sight enough to signal Dean when he needs another round.

Dean could set his watch to Cas’ routine. He downs his first drink—it alternates between _Patron_ silver or _1800_ gold—takes two long drags from his _Benson and Hedges_ menthol ultra light 100s, and casually glides over to the jukebox. He will lean over the vintage machine as if he doesn’t have his selection memorized. Standing in the low light casts him in a shadow, making a gorgeous silhouette. His broad back turned to toward the bar. The cigarette held with ease, between strong lengthy fingers, as he grips the side of the record player. His slender wrists make his hands look sturdy and powerful, and Dean would be lying if he said he hadn’t had a daydream or two about Cas pinning him down with those very hands.

Up first in the rotation is _Patsy Cline She’s Got You._ And though Dean expects it, the song catches in his throat every time he quietly sings along. It’s safe to assume Cas is nursing an injured heart when song two comes up. _Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain_ by Willie Nelson _._ It always brings the bar down, but when Cas is drinking alone, it’s usually on a weeknight and the crowd never seems to mind.

He finishes up with one of Dean’s personal favorites _Going to California_ by Zepp, and it seems to settle deep in his bones. He doesn’t know what’s got Cas down tonight, but he’s shooting tequila faster than Dean’s ever seen, and makes a mental note to either cut him off or take his keys.

Dean’s been running The Winchester since he got back from an honorable discharge six years ago. His great-granddaddy founded the bar as a speakeasy during prohibition, and when he got back with an education, but no direction, he started tending bar a few nights a week for his father. John Winchester took ill after Dean had been back for six months and passed away by the time his one-year anniversary home rolled around.

His younger brother, Sam, tried to convince him to sell the bar and move out west with him, but Dean couldn’t. It was his family’s legacy and even though it was nothing more than a watering hole for a bunch of wheat farmers, he couldn’t put his family’s business in the hands of anyone other than a Winchester.

So, there he stands polishing glass and waiting for Cas to finish his drink. The night is slow and they’re halfway through Willie’s crooning when a man approaches Castiel, who only just reclaimed his seat in the corner booth. The man is tall and handsome, with a square jaw that could cut glass. Dean doesn’t recognize him, so he must not be a regular—if he were he wouldn’t waste his time getting shot down by Cas. Everybody knows he only drinks alone, and he only smokes when he drinks.

Keeping his eyes trained on the stranger, Dean watches as the man leans forward to light Castiel’s cigarette. Just as he suspected Cas gives him a tight smile before looking down into his glass. He’s trying to brush the guy off but Captain Clueless isn’t picking up on the hint. Dean decides that if Cas can’t ignore the guy to death, then he will intervene—he’s not sure what he’ll do, but he has time to think of something.

Frank Devereaux, local paranoid doomsday prepper and Winchester regular, calls Dean across the bar for a refill on his scotch. Normally, Dean doesn’t mind talking to Frank. He can say some pretty off-the-cuff shit, stuff Dean would call _bat shit crazy_ in less than polite company, but he’s a good guy. When John died Frank sat him down after closing one night and gave him some of the best advice he’s ever gotten.

 

It had been a rough shift and Dean spent the night growling out orders to anyone that got near him. He had threatened Frank that he wouldn‘t serve him for a month if he didn’t get his ass up and out the door. But the older man sat there patiently waiting for the bar to clear out. Dean remembers being so pissed off at Frank that he wanted to smash a beer bottle over his head, but instead, he took a calming breath and asked him to leave with as much patience he could muster. Frank insisted he sit down and talk to him. When Dean refused, Frank told him he didn’t have enough emotional investment in Dean to let his piss and vinegar push him away, and then proceeded to tell Dean that’s exactly how he ended up spending his nights alone in a dumpy dive bar in the middle of Kansas. Something about it hit home for Dean, and he begrudgingly pulled down a bottle of Bullitt straight bourbon and poured them both a double.

They talked and drank well into the night when Frank finally asked Dean what he would do. It was something he’d been asked a million times by his brother, his uncle Bobby, half the bar patrons wanted to know what Dean would do with his life, and he _just didn’t know_. Everyone around him acted like keeping the bar going would be a waste of his time, but it was important to him, he liked it at the bar, but didn’t know if that’s what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He’d only been out of the Marines a year.

Dean had laughed when Frank looked him square in the face and said _Okay fine. Do what I did._ It was the first time Dean smiled that day, and surprisingly he felt lighter. So he shot back a snarky retort asking if he should go native and stock up on C-rations. Frank was not impressed with his attempt at a joke and leveled Dean with a serious gaze. _No, cupcake. What I did when I was twenty-six and came home to find my wife and two kids gutted on the floor. Decide to be fine ‘till the end of the week. Make yourself smile because you’re alive and that’s your job. And do it again next week._

He didn’t know Frank’s history and hearing him talk about it so blase was unsettling. He didn’t know how to respond, so he just asked Frank if he was telling him to fake it. The older man got a faraway look in his eye and stared off over Dean’s shoulder and told him _I call it being a professional. Do it right, with a smile, or don’t do it._ Frank got up without even looking at Dean, threw back his last shot, and walked out the door. When Dean drove home that night he clinched the wheel with both hands and forced a smile. Not one that reached his eyes, not one he felt in his core, but it was a smile nonetheless.

Frank's advice got him through the first few weeks and thought it was hard, he smiled at every customer. It wasn’t long until he noticed a small upturn of his lips coming more naturally, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t remember the first real grin that passed his lips since his father died. It was the first time Cas walked up to his bar and asked if he could have a glass of water for his idiot brother. The blatant honesty caught Dean off guard and his husky chuckle surprised both men.

Dean’s not sure if that’s when his interest in Cas started—he refuses to call it a crush—but the beautiful man with the dark fluffy hair has never failed to bring a smile to Dean’s face, even when he’s sitting alone listening to depressing country music on a Wednesday night.

 

Dean tops off Frank’s glass and talks to him for a few moments, his back turned to Cas and his new friend. He’s not sure what he’s more worried about, the second-hand embarrassment for Sir Square Jaw getting rejected, or if this is the night Cas decides to get over a man by getting under a new one. Though in his fantasies Cas is always a top, but that’s neither here nor there.

The opening riff of _Going to California_ fills the bar, and Dean’s sure it’s about time for Cas to have his refill. He looks around the bar one last time, checking that everyone has a drink before looking back to Castiel, seeing that his glass is indeed empty, but tall, Dark, and Buff is making his way across the dance floor towards the bar with a set to his stupid strong jaw.

He’s never seen Cas with anyone, but this guy just doesn’t seem to fit the type he imagines Cas prefers. He’s wearing a leather moto jacket over a grey hoodie, and his auburn hair is casually imperfect. Dean knows from his own morning routine it probably took him at least twenty minutes to get that look—he’s not fooling anyone.

“Hey, man can I get two of whatever that guy’s drinking?” Chiseled Jaw asks as he sidles up to the bar. He jerks his head back in Cas’ direction, and Dean feels fire in his belly. The prick didn’t even ask his name.

“You mean Castiel?” Dean snarks. It’s pickup 101, you ask the guy his name first. Then you ask if you can buy him a drink.

“Oh, that’s his name? Kinda weird, but yeah just two of whatever Cas-teel having.”

Here is Dean’s chance to intervene. Maybe Cas will get mad and tell Dean he can handle himself, or maybe he will be thankful. Either way, Dean’s not going to just pour this guy four shots of Patron and send him off to Cas. It’s meddling, he knows that, but he’s willing to risk Cas being mad at him.

“What’s your name man?” Dean asks. He leans forward spreading his arms wide and placing both palms on the countertop.

“Ezekiel.”

“Look, Zeke—I’m gonna call you Zeke—you’re reading this all wrong. Let me tell you about him.” Dean reaches behind him and grabs the bottle of tequila he left on the back counter. He pours two shots and passes one over to Ezekiel. He doesn’t make a habit of drinking on the job, but a shot now and then doesn’t hurt, not with Dean’s tolerance.

Ezekiel glares at him but slowly slides onto the barstool. He takes the shot and throws it back, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. He looks skeptical but stays put waiting to hear what Dean has to say.

“You came to the right place if you’re looking for a quick hook up. You just picked the wrong guy. I know you lit his cigarette, and that has you feeling pretty good. You’re thinking maybe you got a shot, and look, man, with most guys, you probably would. But if Cas is smoking that means he’s here to get drunk, and he only drinks alone.” Dean is doing his best to stay calm, trying to come across as a concerned bystander, but by the way Zeke’s eyes narrow, it’s clear he’s not buying it.

“Why don’t you chill with the stalker vibe and just pour the drinks, all right?” Zeke stands up to his full height and slightly puffs out his chest. He’s posturing, and it’s taking everything Dean has to not laugh at him. What Zeke failed to see in all his pomposity was that Cas just raised his hands in praise and mouthed _Thank you_ to the bartender.

“Okay, just don’t take it all that hard when he smiles and turns you down. For a complicated guy, he ain’t that hard to figure out.” Dean turns to fix the asshole his drinks. He wants to lean around him and shrug at Cas, letting him know he did all he could, but the guy will have to hear a no from Castiel himself. And if he pushed after Cas’ no, he would regret ever walking into the bar.

Dean considers suggesting Zeke take Cas someplace quiet, work on getting to know him, but he’s already given the guy enough to work with, and if he were smart, he would drop the drink off and leave Cas alone for a while. Maybe come back later and ask for his number, or a date the following weekend. But as Dean pushes the drinks over, the guy gives him a smug smile, and any thought of extra kindness goes down the drain quicker than last nights margarita mix.

A morbid part of him wants to watch the guy get shot down, he wants to see the look of disappointment on his face when Castiel is sweet but firm in telling him he’d rather be alone. But another part, the smaller but more sensible part tells Dean he should give them some privacy. After all, he knows what it’s like to get turned down by Cas; it doesn’t a number on your damn heart.

 

It had taken Dean a good five months to work up the courage to ask Cas out. This was back in the early days of his twin brother’s divorce, and he was in The Winchester almost every Friday night making sure Jimmy didn’t drink and drive or start a bar fight, which he was apt to do when he was on a whiskey bender. On that particular night, it had been rum and coke that got Jimmy fall-down drunk, and Dean had to cut him off before midnight. It doesn’t take many people to run the bar, but he has a few backups during the summer, and Dean felt confident enough in his co-bartender, Garth, to help Castiel get Jimmy out to the car. After buckling Jimmy in, Cas shut the door and gave Dean the biggest grin—a smile so wide it showed his gums and wrinkled up his nose. As lame and it is, Dean would swear his knees went weak having Cas look at him that way. It’s what gave him the courage to ask Cas to grab coffee with him sometime the following week. He felt all warm and tingly, but confident Cas would say yes. They had been flirting back and forth, and Dean was sure Cas would at least give him a shot.

He was dead wrong.

Cas’ eyes went wide, and he turned a little pale. His loose, carefree smile turned into a grimace. The _no_ was on the tip of Cas’ tongue when Jimmy threw open the passenger door and threw up all over Cas’ shoes. Thankful for an excuse to escape, Dean ran inside and grabbed a trash bag and a spare roll of paper towels. Cas gave him a meek thank you and set about cleaning up Jimmy’s face. The fucking angel he was, ignored the vomit running down his legs to make sure his brother got clean and settled into the car with the trash bag secure up under his chin before working on himself.

Dean sheepishly said his goodbyes and told Cas to call him at the bar if he needed any more help with Jimmy before retreating back inside at what could be called a gallop, tucking his metaphorical tail between his legs.

The following weekend was the first time Cas came in alone. It was also the only time Dean had ever seen him smoke. When he got there he ordered several shots of tequila and a book of matches. Cas took pity on Dean as he threw back the shots and talked to him as if everything were normal—like he hadn’t accidentally crush Dean’s spirit. He found his way back to a corner booth and shrugged off anyone who tried to talk to him.

The Winchester wasn’t a gay bar by any stretch of the imagination, but by the grace of God—or maybe lack thereof—there had never been a problem with same-sex couples in the establishment. Kansas isn’t what you would call progressive, and it was still a mystery to Dean why his patrons were some of the only ones in the three counties he served not being bigoted assholes. Well, maybe they were, they just knew better than to get kicked out of the only bar in thirty miles. Whatever the reason, it was a safe space for anyone interested in same-sex relations, and men did not hold off hitting on Cas.

He’d been in there a time or two dancing with his friends, getting handsy on the dance floor with strangers, and then there was a time he won the wet t-shirt contest and told the crowd he was single if any eligible bachelors were looking. So it wasn’t surprising to see men hitting on Cas that first night he sat cast in shadow, throwing a party for one. What had Dean scratching his head was Cas turning them all down. Each guy more attractive than the last, and still none was good enough. It gave his ego a boost to think it wasn’t just Dean he wasn’t interested in, apparently, he didn’t like half the county.

 

Tonight was no different, chiseled chest was still working Cas as Dean made his rounds, topping off any low glasses. By the time he finished, Frank tried to pull him into his quasi-debate with Victor Hendrickson about the moon landing. The two made a strange pair, Victor an FBI agent and three-time divorcé, and Frank a tax evading widower who’s lived off the grid for at least fifteen years. But they seem to enjoy each other company, and more often than not, they try and get Dean to side with them in whatever conspiracy they‘re arguing about.

Frank is finishing up his pitch when Zeke knocks on the bar twice trying to get Dean’s attention. His gaze is downtrodden, and even though a smug smile pulls at Dean’s lips, he does his best to conceal it.

“I need to cash out my tab, and you can skip the _I told you so_ ,” Zeke says.

“Sure thing man,” Dean responds, grateful to make an easy escape from the great moon landing debate of 2019. He glides down to the end of the bar carelessly, keeping his posture light, and his features stony.

“But you won’t get an _I told you so_ from me.” Dean turns his back to rifling through the small stack of cards he had next to the register. “I’ve just seen happen a lot, hell I’ve even been through it myself.”

He‘s considering giving the guy a break and charging him for well tequila since he‘s buying for Castiel, and Cas never pays top-shelf price, when he hears Castiel’s deep rumble. “Been through what?

Shit, Cas moved fast for a man halfway to being drunk. They’d gone years without talking about that night and now everything would get weird just because some toolbag wouldn’t leave Cas well enough alone.

“Heya, Cas. Can I get you another?” Dean asks, pointing to the empty glass he’s is gripping with his left hand.

Cas perches himself on a barstool and gives Dean the kind of glare that clichés about looks and killing people are written about.

“Answer the question, Dean,” Cas demands. There’s no slur to his voice, and Dean is reminded of what an impressive tolerance Cas has.

“It’s not a big deal Cas, we haven‘t talked about it in years, why start now?” Dean chirps going for cool and aloof, like his heart doesn’t clinch every time Cas throws his head back in laughter, or when he smiles at Dean like he’s actually worth being excited about.

Zeke clears his throat, eyes bouncing back and forth between the bartender and the man that just rejected him. “Uh, if I could just get my card, I’ll…go.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder and points to the door.

Dean hadn’t rung him up yet and would cancel out his order later, his tab wasn‘t huge, and the insane markup on premium alcohol meant he could afford to hand out a few free shots just to get this guy out of his bar. He slaps the card down without ever taking his eyes off Cas, and mumbles that the drinks are on him. Zeke, for all his earlier persistence, doesn‘t hesitate to rush off.

Dean watches Cas watch Zeke walk away, and once he‘s out of earshot, Cas’ eyes shoot to him. “Dean, what in the fuck are you talking about? I have never rejected you. You would have had to ask me out for me to reject you.”

What the fuck is Cas talking about? God, he brushed Dean off so quickly, he doesn‘t even remember doing it. “Uh, yeah man, I asked you out for coffee right after Jimmy’s divorce. Based on the look of horror on your face I thought you’d give up drinking all together just to avoid me.”

“Jesus, Dean that was you asking me out? Like on a date?” Cas stands quickly, knocking over the barstool with the backs of his thighs. He walks around to the end of the bar and stares at Dean expectantly.

Confused about everything that’s happening, Dean follows Cas’ lead and joins him at the only entrance to the space behind the bar. Cas stepping into his space makes his eyes go wide, and his body tenses, wondering what he’s going to do. The deep wrinkle between his eyebrows isn't giving anything away, and Cas could be ready to kiss him or knee him in the groin.

“Dean, that was, as you said, years ago. If I’m remembering the night correctly, I had something to do with Jimmy the next day about his divorce. I couldn’t have gone for coffee, but if you would have just asked again, I would have been thrilled to go on a date with you.”

The last three years of Dean’s life flash before his eyes. All the pining, all the longing for the doofus standing in front of him, and all he had to do were ask again? Fuck that, he’s not the only one who could have said something.

“Why didn’t you ever ask me?” Dean inquires.

Cas ducks his head, the start of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I, uh, I wasn’t sure you were interested in men. You were a little flirty, but you’re kind of that way with everyone, so I didn’t know. Why do you think I came here every time I got dumped? I was hoping one day you would show some amount of interest.”

Cas steps forward and wraps his fingers around Dean’s shoulder. Looking up at him with hope in his eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ Cas, if I would have known I would have––”

Dean was cut off by Castiel crushing their lips together, pressing firmly into Dean’s mouth. Before Dean could sink into the kiss, the bar broke out in weak scattered cheers. Someone shouted _it’s about time_ , and Dean’s pretty sure it was Frank.

Cas pulls back, biting his bottom lip and stares up at Dean. His eyes are a little glassy from all the shots, and maybe a little bloodshot, but that only accentuates the pools of blue looking up at him through dark thick lashes.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he calls out to the small but rowdy crowd. This time it’s Victor whistling.  

“You wanna continue this after the peanut gallery goes home?” Dean asks. Maybe not his best pickup line, but Castiel Novak just kissed him in the middle of his bar––he’s not firing on all cylinders.

Cas nods, but the sneaky bastard shoves forward and pecks Dean’s lips, before drawing back and winking at him. It makes Dean’s insides melt, and even though it took a minimum of three years, he hopes Cas won’t have a reason to drink alone anymore.

  



End file.
